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I hold up the ribbon in my hand, showing it to the cat. “See? Look. I got second place.”

His adorable black nose twitches.

Crouching down, I put the ribbon within his reach so he can get a better look.

He inches closer, sniffs it.

“It’s a black ribbon. Which is actually kind of cool for Halloween, but it isn’t orange.”

Mr. Whiskers suddenly loses all interest in the ribbon as quickly as he had any at all. Falling back on his fluffy pantaloons, he kicks up his leg, grooming himself.

Laughing under my breath, I cross the living room and pin the ribbon temporarily to the little corkboard near the kitchen. Tomorrow I’ll bring it downstairs and hang it beside last year’s winning orange ribbon.

Who knows? Maybe by then I’ll stop being bitter that I lost.

I’m not usually this disappointed by a loss. When I was baking pies out of the tiny apartment I had when I was living in Newburg, I entered every contest I could find. The validation that people liked my pies—that I was good at this—helped me get the nerve to open my shop. The first prize purses for some of the bigger contests helped fund my move. I wasn’t always victorious. I’ve definitely lost more than I won, especially when I was starting out as a semi-professional piemaker a decade ago.

But this is Cindy. She was so pissed when I won last year, she immediately got on my nerves. Then there was the Christmas bazaar, where I donated six pies to the local church and I was tickled pink to hear that my pies sold quicker than the fruitcakes Cindy baked for the event. We’ve been in a silent rivalry ever since—though it could be one-sided for all I know, and Cindy is my secret nemesis without barely remembering who I am—and it only continued with today’s contest.

If anyone else had won, I don’t think it would’ve bothered me as much. And, come tomorrow, I’ll be so hyped up, passing out treats to the costumed kiddies and selling Halloween pies before stopping by the Fall Festival for its closing events that I probably won’t think much about it, either.

For tonight, though? I’m ready to put on a Halloween movie, pop some corn, cuddle up with my cat, and begrudgingly pout about how an all-around baker like Cindy Hargrove could make a better pie than me when they’re my specialty.

My apartment isn’t much bigger than the shop. The kitchen and living room share the same space, and a short hallway leads to my bedroom and bathroom. I have an overstuffed couch that fortunately came with the place, a television that I paid someone to install on the wall, and plenty of Halloween decorations because I’m a pretty big fan of the holiday, too, even if the most I did was buy a ‘cat ears’ headband to wear as a costume at work tomorrow before changing into something else for the festival.

I head into the bedroom, changing out of my clothes before pulling on an old pair of pajama pants and a soft T-shirt. By the time I come out again, Mr. Whiskers is sitting in the middle of the living room, waiting for me.

I bend low, giving him a quick scratch. The big guy preens, and a lot of my disappointment melts away. How can I be so bothered by coming in second when I get to come home to a fluffy cat who looks at me as if I can do anything—including operating the pop-top lid on his can of wet food?

Chuckling under my breath, I head for the kitchen. That Mr. Whiskers follows me tells me that I’m right. He’s hungry, and so am I.

I put out a can of chicken-flavored wet food for Mr. Whiskers to scarf down while my microwaveable popcorn is working. As I wait for the tell-tale pops, my mind wanders, and I can’t help but dwell on the Bake-Off.

Orange zest. Molasses. Black pepper. Each one isn’t so unusual on its own, but all three of them in the same recipe? Now, I’m not accusing Cindy of anything. I’ve tried enough of her bakes to admit that she’s good at what she does. It’s just… it’s such a coincidence.

And it doesn’t make me feel any better that my recipe book is still missing.

I glance down at Mr. Whiskers. “It’s gotta be somewhere,” I tell him because, welp, he’s the only one here. “My recipe book, I mean. It’s just… I’ve looked everywhere. Under the counters. Behind the mixer. Up here. Downstairs. Shoot. I even checked the freezer because I once found my phone in there, and I still have no idea how I managed that.”

As my voice drones on, punctuated by a couple of pops at first, then plenty more, Mr. Whiskers lifts his head. Stinky brown cat food clings to his glorious whiskers—his namesake—while he looks at me as though he thinks I’ve lost it.

Maybe he’s right.

I shrug, turning toward the microwave so that I can get the popcorn bag out before it starts to burn. “It’s probably in the shop somewhere.”

It has to be.

Because the alternative is that Cindy Hargrove somehow snuck into The Pie Chart, found my recipe book, stole it, and then used one of my recipes to beat me.

And that’s absolutely ridiculous and, believe me, Kate Bellamy knows ridiculous. After all, she’s the new cat mama who actually believes she’ll be able to squeeze Mr. Whiskers into the large size spider costume I bought online when he’s a former tom cat I basically kidnapped and locked in my house.

That thought makes me smile.

I dump the popcorn into the big silver bowl I use specifically for nights like these. A sprinkle of salt and more butter than I should probably use, and I look down at Mr. Whiskers. “What do you think, bud? You, me, movie?”

“Mrow.”

“It’s a date. Come on.” I grab the bowl. Mr. Whiskers trots at my feet. “Let’s do Hocus Pocus again. Remember? There’s a black cat in that one.”